Rabbit can Beat Cobra!

 

Rabbit can beat Cobra! Yes, it is possible! Provided the rabbit gives only that much against the cobra as it would give in a deadly fight against a fellow rabbit for the girl rabbit. The crux of the matter is: All routine results and consequences are born of the meek acceptance of certain facts, i.e., a rabbit has to die or run away while faced against a snake. Even the snake attacks a rabbit under the instinctive presupposition that the rabbit has to get scared and get defeated. The rabbit on its part is most of the times driven to the extent of heart failure at the sight of a snake. But oddity is a great maker for the one and breaker for the other. If the blind supposition of certain cause and effect phenomenon is put to rest to test another angle of reality, it might give miraculous outcomes.

 

I saw a documentary in which these roles were turned topsy-turvy by the characters. A snake attacked a rabbit in a field. At the first strike the rabbit jumped back. Conventionally the snake should have been running after the scared creature, but the latter struck back. It was sufficient to break the snake's surety about the weaker status of the rabbit. It went on back foot. After this it was a sheer comedy. The big snake was running for life, while the brave rabbit was jumping at its tail all the way.

 

Moral of the story is: If despite being bothered about what lies in our face, we just give as much as in the face of some equal opponent, we can turn the tables on mightily weightier people, animals, situations and problems. The condition is just this: We have to give our best shot irrespective of the status of what confronts us.

 

Following the same principle a brave girl was seen heartfully slapping a fierce looking rascal. Believe me I have never seen such plain, hard slapping in real life! The rascal just did some mischief under the presumption that this rosy creature will not be in a fighting position against his rowdy appearance and he will go scot free even after infringing on her modesty. Unfortunately, this is what normally happens in real life. So the idiot was driven into misadventure by this blind presupposition. But man what repercussions! The brave lady just gave her best as she would have given against a fellow girl in a catfight. Amazing! He just stood spellbound under the shower of her slaps. It was just like watching a stony man being slapped effortlessly. Man, he was not even raising his hands to save his imperilled cheeks. Almost hypnotized! It was a great fun though!

 

 

We are the Beggary Owners with Leftovers

 

He is in his early eighties now. Robust old man! Definitely a sort of achiever at the property front! More so against the fact that when he and his family escaped from the blooded Pakistani soil at the partition time, after losing loved ones and all their property, they were even poorer than beggars. He started earning for the family at the tender age of 8 only. Then graduated onto become a truck driver and ultimately a transporter possessing his own truck.

 

His struggles took him to all corners of the country in all types of circumstances. I asked him about the guiding philosophies in his life. There was a light in his old, dim eyes and he peeped deep into the past for guidance: 'This fellow trucker of ours was really poor. All his worth was invested in this old, rickety truck. We were going in a convoy in the north east. His vehicle was carrying jaggery. The vehicle got toppled into a hole. It was damaged and the jaggery lay scattered all over the place. Fortunately he and his helper boy came out with bruised skin. But I knew he was carrying bigger scars in his heart because that truck was all he had in the name of property. We were just afraid how he will react to it. In fact we were almost speechless so far as paying lip service is concerned.’

 

‘He just sat on a stone piece and cast a sad look at the damaged truck. In a very normal tone he called his helper, "Oye yaar jo hona tha ho gaya. Ab rone ka kya fayada. Bhookh lagi hai puttar. (Whatever had to happen has happened. Crying won’t help. Son I’m hungry). Bring me some lumps of jaggery and water. Bad ki bad me sochenge. Pahle bhojan to kar le (We will think about future later, first let’s eat)." Saying this he invited all of us into the feast as well. All of us had our heartful lunch from the scattered provisions and claimed our parts, the one that really belonged to us...the one in our stomach. ' That old time episode still seems to light up his dimly lit path in the old age.

 

This is what is all about life buddy. It is no use crying over the spilt milk. We have to ensure that the show continues. Whatever is left after a storm is truly what belongs to us. We have to proceed with the journey with the depleted resources. Well, a journey is after all a journey fella! It is not justified that we expect all the pomp, show and regalia to accompany us till the end. Like Irfaan Khaan playacting Pan Singh Tomar said in the movie based on the Chambal athlete’s life: 'One has to complete the race! Winning and losing does not matter. All we can do is just try to reach the finish line!'

Idea Conceived, Deliver a Healthy Baby Now

 

Almost 90 per cent of the ideas entering the brains of normally sane people are practical to a highly decent degree. It’s just to be human to think and contrive scores of ways and means to achieve our means. As per the ‘survival of the fittest’ theory, our brains try to equip us with best defence mechanisms through activities, plans, schemes and strategies. The result is a big bustling bazaar of practical ideas.

 

However, millions of practical ideas die in brains, being kicked in the womb by the forces of indifference, negligence, lack of confidence, etc. It’s not an accidental miscarriage. It’s simply stabbing the ideas in the womb with the knives of self-doubt, ignorance and complacency. It’s an unseen, unproveable sin. And we commit dozens of such since almost daily. Here I must emphasise that by practical ideas I mean legally and socially permitted ideas, not the dubious and nefarious ones that result in loss to others even though they fetch some gain to the doer. 

 

Believe me a sane idea in a normal brain is just like a ball kept at the table top of a mountain. It just needs a beginning push, just enough to allow it to cross the level ground and reach the margin where the slope starts. After that it is bound to roll downhill under the gravitational forces born of your starting effort, other constituents in your scheme, various correlated fates and efforts, etc., etc. The ball of your system will just roll down buddy. So prove only this much that you have decently workable legs having at least that much strength as required to move a stationary football. Kick the standstill ball on a small plain in your brain.  Just give it a deft touch by conceiving an idea, use a mild kick to start the process of generation and you set the system rolling gently. See carefully through the time of the pregnancy and see yourself deliver a healthy baby scheme.

 

 

The Common Story of a Common Man

 

Jaipal is around 45 but looks an old man of 60. Hair beaten by all types of winds; teeth gone in munching the stones that life has to offer; facial features roughed off like furious desert storms hitting against a lifeless rock face for years. Life has very little to offer to this daily wage earner from my neighbouring village. Still he gives best to the society around; makes this darkening world a little brighter with his self-motivated commitment for the labour tasks at hand.

His friends call him 'Tihadi', i.e., the one who has been to the notorious jail in Delhi. But as you watch this bony figure heaving massive pulls at the conscience-lorn rope at the worksite, you don’t find any justification for the title. Well, the famed Indian justice system mostly catches the smallest fish and allows the whales a safe passage. He was caught ticketless in a local passenger train to Delhi. Fine was to the tune of 500 rupees. 'But my whole being is not even worth that much!' he pleaded before the checking squad. So he landed up in Tihar jail to earn the nickname. The babus made him do a hard labour to earn his roti and dal. There was no encashment for his fruitless work, of course. Unconcerned now, he stretches out every sinew of his frail body to make my world better at the construction site.

 

For the marriage of his eldest daughter he had pooled almost his life-long earnings, and put them in his hovel. There was a fire and his 60,000 rupees turned to ashes. But then sometimes people get sentimental; thus many came forward with a hand of charity. Money and gifts were collected by the villagers. This single good-countering-bad stroke of destiny has, may be, kept the thread of honesty tied to his being.

 

He has not even a bicycle. I ask him the reason. 'There is no space to put it at my place,' he says. I look for signs of a joke on his decimated face. But he is damn serious. His fellow labourers bear witness to this fact. His only possession is a tiny 10×15 yard depilated room. So where is the room for poor man's merc, i.e., bicycle? I think it does not need more emphasis to decide that he is amongst the poorest of the poor in the country. There is this scheme of BPL card in rural India. The card-holder enjoys many benefits like subsidized wheat, rice and kerosene from the public distribution system. If one can arrange some patronage and blessings from the mighty village strongmen and pradhan, one can get 25,000 rupees for house construction as well. But for such big benefits you must in a position to pay back many times more in other forms. He does not fit anywhere in this give–take equation. So despite many rounds for a BPL card he is found the least eligible for it.

 

The world may not care about him. The economic breeze blowing coolly in India may not kiss to vaporise the sweat beads on his hardened, bowing back. Swanky cars may glut the roads while he does not even get his bicycle. Scamsters may swindle public money to the tune of hundreds of millions and go scot free, while he spends 10 hardworking and insulting nights in Tihar jail. He may stay in a tiny hovel while he helps construct swanky apartments for others. He, but, has got his reward. The reward of goodness. Despite countless promptings to the contrary, his basics have not changed. He is true to himself. And this truth to the self is the fuel that is pulling the cart of this big, bad and still worsening world. It will collapse when the last of his type will say bye to this world.

 

Acidified Roses

 

Flower buds are soft and lovely. They blossom later to spread resplendent smiles. Children are still softer. We call them the future of a country. This expectation is conditional on the family, society and institutional support that is to be given to these human buds to enable them blossom fully.

 

A kid's palms are very soft. These are spared from becoming coarse. The soft palms need to stay soft so that bright evolving destiny takes a shape; slowly, gradually solidifying into concrete hardened realities. Elders use their leathery knuckles and stony palms to allow fine maps on the kid's palms so that they grow up as successful, happy individuals. But there are kids who are yoked into the merciless grind of survival game right from the beginning. They earn for themselves. These human buds do not get the time to blossom fully before becoming the fully functional part of the productive society. Their palms are never at ease to allow fine lines to evolve and chalk out lucky pattern for a happy future. The lines get cut by the razor sharp edges of harsh reality they tread upon on a daily basis.

 

On an impersonally honking and noisy crossing in Delhi, two kids pulled their heavily laden rickshaw out of the traffic mess. Horns blared. Getting-late-to-office elders threw curses. Traffic policeman even gave stares as if they had broken all the rules in his rulebook. Unconcerned they just expertly managed the odds heavily stacked against them by this uncaring world. There was no kiddish scare on their faces. These two boy-men cared a damn about the situation getting worse around them. They tended for themselves. I do not think we have any right to nurture any expectation from them as adults. Society and institutions have not given them anything. These have just robbed them of their childhood. Equipped with stony experiences and needle sharp instances, these kids have the right to draw any damn line on their palms. They reserve every right to cock-a-snook at the so called civilized and rule-based society. By killing a childhood, the society loses its right to lay claim on the desired, suitable adulthood.